


Autumn: Harvest Moon

by sanzuh



Series: The Seasons of My Love [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Born and bred in Oldtown high society, marrying the right man has always been on top of Sansa's list. But by what standard do you choose the right man?Years later, her daughter Rhaenys is about to marry Dickon Tarly, making Sansa think back to her own courtship and wedding.This used to be chapter 2 of a multichapter fic, but I'm finally turning them into a series of separate fics because I think that makes more sense.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: The Seasons of My Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010232
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Autumn: Harvest Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Neil Young Song
> 
> Locket quote from the poem _Dominique aujourd'hui présente_ by Paul Eluard, but I changed toi to vous because it felt more appropriate for the time period I'm trying to imitate in this universe.
> 
> Don't ask me why people speak French in the Reach. In this universe they just do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Sansa is seventeen.

Father will announce the engagement tonight. Everyone who is someone in Oldtown will be present. There will be champagne and fancy hors d'oeuvres and lemon cakes from Masha's, which happens to be the finest bakery in town.

Her gown is made of the finest brocade with embroidered cap sleeves, slit down the middle to reveal a panel of pale silk. Her hair's been done after the latest fashion in King's Landing, as depicted in the fashion plates from _Moniteur de la Mode._

She checks her reflection one last time in the mirror before turning the corner. Harry will be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. She scans the room to make sure everyone will see her entrance and her eyes fall on a slender, elegant man who's standing alone in a corner.

He can't be older than thirty, but there's a rapier hanging from his hip and unlike all the other gentlemen in the room, who are all in pantaloons or trousers, he's wearing breeches and stockings under his tailcoat. He's the dark and brooding type, his hand clenching and unclenching on his elaborately carved cane, and his cravat is starched and folded, tied in a Gordian knot.

She stops her sister Arya with a hand on her shoulder. "Who's that gentleman standing over there?" she asks, trying to assume a tone of disinterest. 

Arya glances down. "Oh! Him?" she shrugs. "That's Jon Targaryen."

Sansa gasps - _the Targaryens all went into exile after the revolution -_ and as if he's heard her, he looks up, meeting her eyes, and the entire room erupts into a symphony of colour. 

As she descends the staircase, she can feel his gaze sweeping over her in a way which she's sure is entirely improper. She tilts her chin up a little higher, straightening her back as she resists the urge to stare back. When Harry takes her hand, she sees his lips moving, but she can't understand him over the ringing in her ears. She bats her eyelashes and tells him how handsome he looks, even as she glances sideways, finding Jon Targaryen's attention still fixed on her. 

Father's voice is seeping with emotion, but she hardly hears him announce the betrothal between Capitaine Harrold Waynwood Hardyng and Demoiselle Sansa Minisa Stark. Her eyes keep meeting the dark grey ones -the only colour she knows how to name- of the former Prince.

* * *

_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair_

Sansa hurried up the stairs, heading for Rhaenys' chambers, footsteps muffled by the heavy red carpet covering the steps. Right when she was about to turn right, Jon rounded the corner and immediately clasped a hand over his eyes.

She halted, startled. "What are you doing?"

"I've been told it's ill luck to see the bride before the ceremony," he muttered.

Her lips curled into a smile. "Oh, you witless man. Let me through, so I can go and help our daughter through her latest episode."

He uncovered his eyes. "My mistake is justifiable, Mademoiselle. You are easily the most radiant young lady I've encountered all day."

"You are mocking me, Monsieur!" she accuses him, narrowing her eyes at his uncharacteristic use of the flattering language she used to desire as a girl. 

He offered her a smirk before taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. "I would never," he swore and she realized what he was doing. He was trying to distract her with his nonsensical behaviour. 

She smiled at him, her heart overflowing with love for her husband. "Our daughter will be wed today, Jon," she whispered.

He nodded, face pulling into a frown. "I know, Sansa."

***

"But what if Dickon doesn't like my gown, Maman?" Rhaenys wailed, bright blue eyes overflowing with tears. 

Sansa pulled a handkerchief from her reticule, kneeling in front of her.

'Don't cry, mignonne," Jon said, his lip twitching in discomfort. 'You look gorgeous in anything."

Rhae managed to huff in between sobs. "You are the only one who thinks so, Papa!"

Jon ran a hand through his silver-and-black curls, shooting Sansa a panicked look.

She glanced at the comtoise. "The Septon will be arriving soon, chéri. Would you mind going down and greeting him?"

Jon nodded and pressed a kiss to Rhaenys' pinned up black curls before removing himself from the room. 

Sansa sighed, smoothing back an unruly lock of her daughter's hair. "Now listen to me, Rhaenys. You look stunning in your wedding gown. And I'm not simply saying so because I am your mother. Could you imagine me allowing you to wear anything short of dazzling?"

Rhae's lip curled up involuntarily.

"As for Dickon," she continued, "you are exceptionally lucky to have found someone who loves you as much as he does. He's a good man, one of the best, even if your father is reluctant to admit it. It'll take another five years and a grandchild until he can force himself to say it out loud, but...

"Oh well, I'm digressing. You're marrying a man you love today, Rhae. You're far past the point of worrying whether he'll like your gown. Trust me on this." Sansa gently dabbed the tears from her daughter's cheeks now she'd stopped shedding them.

"Oh, Maman! The idea of every single thing that could go wrong keeps plaguing me! What if Lyarra trips over her train? Or what if Brandon challenges Dickon to another duel before the ceremony can even take place?"

Sansa rolled her eyes at the memory of her son trying to defend his sister's honour. "Your brother and sister will be on their best behaviour today. I'm sure Lyarra can manage a gown for one day and Brandon loves you too much to make a spectacle on a day like this."

"I want everything to be perfect!" she sighed. "What was your wedding day like, Maman? How many guests were there? Did you have lemon cakes and an orchestra? What did your gown look like?" 

Sansa smiled at the memory. "Oh I honestly don't remember what dress I was wearing," she confessed. "And I don't think we danced that night."

She clasped the ruby-encrusted locket Jon had given her twenty-three years ago. She needn't open it to see the words written in his own hand inside it. _C'est à partir de vous que j'ai dit oui au monde._

 _We did have lemon cakes,_ she recalled. _He licked them off my breasts and stomach, before his tongue ventured elsewhere._

She shook her head to disrupt the memory, before it could bring a blush to her cheeks.

Rhaenys was staring at her in disbelief. 

"Your father and I eloped," she clarified. "I was supposed to marry another man and his family didn't take kindly to my sudden request to end the betrothal."

Her daughter's eyes had grown incredibly large with shock. "Maman!" she gasped. "You've never told me about this before." 

_We didn't wish to give you any ideas._ She smiled at her. "Some other time. Are you ready?"

"I am."

The day ran its course without any major disturbances. In the Sept Sansa feared for a moment that Jon wouldn't let go of Rhaenys' hand, but eventually he did and kissed her cheek before unclasping her maiden cloak. She didn't comment on his moist eyes, but simply placed her gloved hand in his burnt one and let him hold it.

Dinner consisted of many courses of delicacies, including the compulsory lemon cakes. Sansa danced all the quadrilles, but left the polkas to the younger guests.

When the first notes of a slow waltz started filling the ballroom, a low voice asked: "May I have this dance, Madame Targaryen?"

She turned around, surprised, and accepted. As they twirled across the floor, she murmured: "I thought you weren't fond of dancing, Monsieur Targaryen?"

He looked into her amused eyes. "Not particularly, no. But I am exceedingly fond of holding you in my arms," he replied slowly.

Sansa let her cheek rest on his shoulder. They'd drifted to the edge of the dancefloor and were merely swaying from side to side. Rhaenys and Dickon were spinning around in the middle of the room, beaming at each other.

"She looks happy," Jon muttered.

"She does," Sansa agreed.

"At least she had a choice."

Sansa froze. "And we didn't?"

"Walk with me?" he asked, a shadow crossing over his face.

They left the room in silence, once outside, Jon draped his coat over her shoulders. They settled on a white marble bench under the cherry tree, the full autumn moon bright in the sky above them. 

She waited for him to continue, giving him time to ponder his words.

"What if she's like us? She's so young... What if she meets her so-called soulmate next week or next year or a decade from now?"

Sansa blinked slowly. "And you believe she should put her life on hold until she does? What if she never meets him? What if she doesn't have one?"

He shook his head. "Of course not."

"Besides, even if she does, there is no guarantee she'll want to pursue him."

"Indeed there is not," he chuckled darkly. "I thought you were but another empty-headed fool, like all the girls gathered at your ostentatious celebration. And yet I couldn't keep my eyes off you."

Sansa still remembered as if it were yesterday. After the initial shock had worn off, she'd been appalled by the idea of the sullen older prince with his antiquated clothes being her soulmate. He was nothing like Harry, who happened to be exactly like the man she'd always dreamed of marrying. What a fool she'd been indeed.

"It took me only a couple of hours to decide I would leave Westeros again, go back to Essos, resume my mercenary life. Yet how could I leave? I'd come back for a reason..."

They'd kept running into each other at numerous occasions throughout town, slowly shedding their prejudices as they got better acquainted. Then one night Harry had tried to take his rights prematurely at a ball at the Hightower mansion. Sansa had struggled and screamed until Jon burst onto the balcony and without thinking she'd run straight into his arms.

He lightly brushed his fingers over her locket before cupping her cheek, caressing her cheekbone with his thumb. "I thank the gods every day that I chose to stay. You brought joy into my life, and the promise of a real future."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.

"Are you happy, Sansa?" he asked softly.

Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his warm grey ones. "Happier than I could put into words," she stated simply.

He inclined his head to press his lips to her forehead, lingering. She moved into his embrace. "We may not have had a choice," he murmured into her hair. "But I still chose you."

"And I chose you."


End file.
